


Grounded Angel

by biswholocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe-Tattoos, M/M, Tattoos, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1985430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times John saw Sherlock's tattoo by accident, and one time he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Buckingham Palace

John Watson wasn’t easily fazed. Being a soldier and a doctor had taught him how to accept a lot of crazy things, and living with Sherlock Holmes had given him even more practice.

    That being said, Buckingham Palace definitely fazed John. Everything about it, from the furniture to the wallpaper to the guards outside left no room for confusion about who lived there. John could feel his jaw literally drop as he was shown to a sitting room with two elegant sofas placed across a table from each other. Sherlock, the madman, looked completely comfortable there, wearing, of all things, a sheet.

    Of course, in the end, it was Mycroft’s doing- who else would it have been? Mycroft’s reaction to seeing his brother in nothing but a sheet made laughter bubble up in John’s chest, something he was sure both Holmes’ noticed despite his attempts to keep it bottled up. And Sherlock, in a move resembling the child Mycroft had accused him of being, tried walking out. John couldn’t decide which brother was being more amusing- Sherlock, or Mycroft, who held the edge of the material under his shoe.

    Then the sheet dropped, and none of John’s thoughts were anything resembling amused.

    Sherlock had _wings_. Not real ones of course, though the tattoo  was so realistic that John had to take a second look to be sure that his flatmate was not, in fact, an angel. The wings were inked on in a folded position, the outer edges going a little past his shoulder blades, the feathers ending about three-fourths of the way down. The wings even showed the bone and sinew that would connect them to skin, and looked as if they could peel off Sherlock’s skin and pull him airborne.

    John shook himself mentally, and pulled himself back to the room, where Sherlock was now dressed and looking at Mycroft with his usual disdain while listening about Irene Adler, though he couldn’t help wondering where, when, why Sherlock had gotten that tatoo. John absently took a sip of his tea.

    “How many photographs?” Sherlock demanded. Photographs? Oh. Right. Photos, courtesy of Irene Adler.

    “A considerable amount, apparently,” came Mycroft’s calm reply.

    After determining Adler and the client were in the photos together, Sherlock raised a shrewd brow. “And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios,” he stated.

    Perhaps it was the way Sherlock said it, voice lower than usual, though still with a hint of sarcasm; perhaps it was the suit, black and more tight than usual, or the discovery of the damn tattoo, but a series of mental pictures flashed across John’s mind: Sherlock, on his stomach, naked, wings splayed out just begging to be touched; the inked feathers rippling with his muscles as a wrecked, muffled moan left his throat.

    “John, you may want to put that cup back in your saucer now.” Sherlock’s voice cut through John’s thoughts and he blinked before hurriedly placing the tea cup back with a clink.

    He found the rest of the meeting difficult to pay attention to; John’s focus kept slipping to what lay beneath Sherlock’s suit, then pulling himself back, sharply reminding himself that nothing would come of it. At some point they left Mycroft with the customary parting insult, and Sherlock summoned a cab with his usual finesse.

    The ride was quiet, the tires and muted sounds of London breaking it. John attempted to list every element in order to stop thinking about his flatmate, his friend, like that. Suddenly, Sherlock twisted his head from looking out the window and pierced John with his star, brows scrunched in annoyance.

    “For God’s sakes John!” he snapped. “It’s a tattoo, not a triple homicide!”

    “John felt his cheeks burn and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Right, um-”

    “221B Baker Street,” the cab driver announced,  and John’s shoulders slumped with relief as he reached into his pocket for his wallet.

    “How much?” he inquired and rolled his eyes when Sherlock just exited the cab. Genius with tattoos or no, the git never paid a cab fare.


	2. Tortured

“Jesus Christ,” John said wearily, rubbing a hand down his face in hopelessness.

“Can you remember _anything_ else about what he’d figured out before he took off?” Lestrade asked calmly. The only sign of his distress was the tension in his shoulders and a small pinch of his eyes.   

John closed his eyes and shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “All Sherlock said was something about the dealers using homing pigeons, and then he ran out the door.” He’d been missing for eight hours, and John could feel his stomach fill with dread as his internal clock kept ticking away.

Lestrade sighed and slumped heavily onto his desk, and ran a hand through his already-mussed hair. “Okay, well-”

Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by John’s phone, the shrill ringing causing him to jump, then scramble to answer it.

“Hello?” he said, heart pounding.

“Ah, John,” the cultured voice on the other end greeted.

“Mycroft,” John breathed. “Please tell me you have something.”

“Indeed I do-we’ve traced him to a warehouse. You should be getting a text with his location now.”

John’s mobile vibrated with an incoming text, the buzz filling his ear. “Thank you.”

“Of course. The main group has been dealt with-the only one you’ll need to worry about is the guard. Do bring my brother home, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft replied, before he disconnected.

John moved the phone away from his ear and opened the text. “Got it,” he said. “Let’s go. And Lestrade? I’m going in, first.”

Lestrade nodded and began dialing on his mobile as they left the Yard. “Sally? I need a back up unit at a warehouse ASAP. John’s texted you the address.”

* * *

The warehouse was probably as cliched as one could get, John thought as he silently moved through the crowded space. In the outskirts of London, the outside had been falling apart, overgrown with vines, and the inside was full of old shipping containers, darker than the night outside.

A scuff of shoes on concrete made its way to John’s ears as he turned the corner of one of the containers, and old familiar reflexes kicked in. With a quick twist he positioned himself behind the guard and delivered a sharp blow to the back of the man’s head with his gun, causing the man to crumple to the ground unconscious.

John continued his methodical sweep, checking down each row of containers, before he came upon a break in the pattern. A clearing, about six by six metres, came into view, slightly illuminated by the pale moonlight streaming in from a skylight. The increase in light caused the form of a body hanging from a chain a good two metres off the ground to be outlined in stark relief .

 _Sherlock,_ John thought, and shoved his gun into the waistband of his jeans before running over to the detective, whose arms hung above his head, connected to the chain by steel cuffs. Sherlock was stripped down to his trousers; his coat, jacket, and shirt lay on the floor. John cursed under his breath at the sight of the thin, red marks -some deeper than others-across Sherlock’s back and chest before casting his gaze about for something he could use to get Sherlock down.

“Ladder,” came a hoarse rasp from above. John jerked his head up to glance at Sherlock, before registering what he said and scanning the sides of the open space, making a small sound of relief when he saw the ladder leaning against the side of a shipping container.

As John picked the lock on Sherlock’s cuffs, thankful that he’d learned on his friend’s insistence, he could hear Lestrade and his team approaching. By the time they got to them, John had gotten Sherlock down, and had propped him up on the ladder, rubbing Sherlock’s arms to restart circulation. John’s jacket was loosely draped over his shoulders. Looking past Sherlock’s ear, John’s eyes met Lestrade’s, and gave the DI a relieved and thankful nod.

* * *

Sherlock had, of course, refused medical treatment from the ambulance outside, instead opting to stare them down silently as John assured the paramedics that he could take care of Sherlock’s medical needs. The red and blue lights flashed over Sherlock’s pale skin, and John felt a wave of protectiveness rise up in his chest- something about the line of Sherlock’s shoulders and quick flash of exhaustion in the other man’s eyes caused John’s resolve to get home to thicken. “C’mon Sherlock,” he said, and grabbed the bony hand hanging at Sherlock’s side.

“Oi!” Lestrade called out to them. John turned to tell Greg that they could bloody well take statements later, but the silver haired man just tossed a set of keys John’s way.”

“Take my car,” he said. “We’ll see you in a couple days for statements.”

“Thanks, mate,” John replied, and turned to find Lestrade’s car, Sherlock's hand still intertwined with his own. When they found it, a grey, slightly worn down car, John opened the passenger side for Sherlock and then slide into the driver’s seat.

The ride back was quiet. The only sounds in the car were the engine and, as the drove through London, the occasional hoot of laughter from a drunk clubber. Sherlock stared out the side window, face pressed up against the glass. Worry took root in John’s stomach, but he didn’t speak, focusing on the road to get them home.

* * *

 

John had to help Sherlock out of the car, and when the made their way up the stairs, John caught him from falling after he tripped. The detective’s body was heavy from exhaustion and his eyes blinked rapidly in an attempt to stay open.

He was still wearing John’s jacket when the entered the flat, and John helped him over to the couch, slowly letting Sherlock lean back against the cushions.

John reached out to brush a curl from Sherlock’s forehead and smiled gently. “I’ll put the kettle on and then we’ll take a look at those cuts and bruises, okay?” Sherlock made a noise of what was presumably assent, and John made his way into the kitchen, letting the routine of filling the kettle and placing it on the stove melt away the remaining tension from earlier. _Sherlock is safe now._

When John came back out with his first aid kit, Sherlock was already asleep. With a half smile and sigh, John set the kit down on the coffee table and reached over to unzip his jacket, carefully pulling Sherlock’s arms free from the sleeves. Without the jacket, John could see Sherlock’s chest and, at an angle, his back.

John’s fists automatically clenched when he saw the bright red cuts and welts crisscrossing the skin over Sherlock’s ribs for the second time, with the bruising already beginning to show, colouring his back with yellow, green, and purple amidst the blue ink.

John hadn’t forgotten about the wings tattooed on Sherlock’s back. To the contrary, he’d spent quite a lot of time in the month after first seeing them wondering about their meaning and recalling the exquisite detail of bone, sinew, and feathers that covered Sherlock’s skin. But this time the sight of the ink sparked a flame of affection and a wish to keep Sherlock safe, instead of a burning desire. When John thought of what could have happened, what had happened, an ache grew in his chest and his heart pounded. _What if-_

 _No_. John shook himself mentally and forced himself to turn away and hang his jacket up on the hook. _Sherlock is okay_ , he reminded himself as he pulled a blanket up to his friends chin and made himself a cup of tea.

 _Still,_ John thought as he took a seat in his armchair. _Won’t hurt to stay down here until he wakes up._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were wondering what Sherlock's wings looked like, [this](http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/d0/4e/e4/d04ee49c52cb7d69e95eb25ee854f077.jpg) is close to what I was imagining. Chapter three should be up next weekend, but if it isn't I apologize in advance, as I may be doing something special for my birthday. Many thanks for the kudos and comments :)


	3. Treating Him

It had only been nine days since John had brought Sherlock home from being mildly tortured, and the idiot had already gotten himself injured again, chasing a suspect down yet another dingy, deserted alley until said suspect decided to take the time to wheel an empty skip in front of Sherlock. The skip toppled Sherlock, who’d been running fast enough for his coat to flare dramatically behind him and the hit as well as the resulting fall to the damp pavement had aggravated the bruised ribs Sherlock had already been (poorly) nursing.

“You _will_ let me look at those,” John commanded as Sherlock hung up his coat. The suspect had been caught, despite his efforts, and John was determined to make sure SHerlock hadn’t royally fucked anything up while dashing about and slamming into skips.

Sherlock groaned dramatically, but headed for the bathroom; he’d learned, John supposed, that trying to fight him in matters pertaining to Sherlock’s health just did not work, though John could hear mutterings of “ridiculous” and “merely transport” following in the detective’s wake.

One thing John was grateful for was the lighting in 221B’s loo. It was perfect-uniformly bright without being blinding. John pulled at Sherlock’s suit jacket and threw it on the tile, then tugged at the collar of Sherlock’s white shirt, indicating that it needed to go, and was obeyed. The shirt was thrown on top of the jacket.

“You may proceed,” Sherlock said, boredom and annoyance filling his tone.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” John snarked back, before stepping closer to where Sherlock stood by the sink. Getting down to business and putting himself in doctor mode, John ran his fingers lightly over the patches of green and yellow on Sherlock’s chest, noting the slight wince on the man’s face, though his eyes stayed fixed on a point somewhere above John’s head.

“Turn,” John said, and Sherlock rotated, allowing John to inspect his back. There were still healing wounds from Sherlock’s capture-a belt, John had managed to find out, though Sherlock had remained extremely tight-lipped about the whole thing. John hadn’t wanted Sherlock to take any cases yet- his ribs had been bruised while he was kidnapped, but Lestrade had come to them with a locked room murder-suicide (which had, in fact, been a murder-murder), and Sherlock had been off in a second.

Bringing himself back to the present and a step closer, John traced the wounds with his left hand, at some point switching over to the outline of Sherlock’s tattoo. John was reminded of the images that had come to mind the first time he’d seen them, and his worry over Sherlock fell to the back of his mind as a shiver of hot desire ran down his spine at the thought of Sherlock face down in bed, moaning as John tongued over the inked wings, the way that they would undoubtedly follow the wanton movement of his hips and back as he begged for more-

“Told you I was fine.” Sherlock’s petulant remark cut through John’s thoughts, causing him to cough and step back as the other man turned back around. John avoided Sherlock’s gaze by picking the shirt and jacket off the floor.

“Yes,” John agreed, voice surprisingly calm as he walked out of the bathroom, Sherlock close behind. And you will be more than fine in a few days, if you avoid being knocked over by skips. I just needed to make sure. And besides…” John trailed off as Sherlock walked down the hall to his room, showing off his wings once more. God that man was sexy. _All the things I could do with him…_

“Besides?” Sherlock prompted, looking over his shoulder with one eyebrow raised. John could feel his face flush and coughed again.

“Uh...nothing,” he said quickly before walking away from Sherlock, certain the man knew exactly what John had been thinking. _Shit,_ John thought, then internally sighed. _I need a cup of tea,_ he decided. A cup of tea and an exile of all dirty thoughts pertaining to one Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

 

A cup of tea later, John was definitely far more relaxed as he settled in to write up the case for his blog. Thoughts of waking up with those wings, with _Sherlock,_ across the bed from him, however, were definitely still lurking at the back of John’s mind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Got really lucky and have some access to the internet this week, so I'll probably get to post at least one more chapter before the weekend! I've also gone through what I've posted so far and fixed some small errors, but please let me know if you find any more! Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos; they really make my day :)


	4. In The Shower

John sank down into his chair with a weary sigh, letting himself slump into the comfortable cushions as he took a sip of his tea. It had been an exhausting day at the surgery, and John had been relieved to hear the shower running when he got home, very willing to take advantage of the quiet and relax.

He’d just closed his eyes when there was a large thump from the bathroom, drawing John out of his moment. The water was still running, John noted, and with a bit of confusion and worry, walked over to the bathroom after setting down his tea. John put his head to the door and knocked sharply on the wood.

“Sherlock?” he asked, worry colouring his tone. John waited, but no reply came from within, so he tried the door, twisting the brass knob. Unlocked. John opened the door slowly and stepped inside.

The small room was filled with steam, making the air thick and humid. John called Sherlock’s name again over the splash of water on tile, then paused when a small whimper came from behind the shower curtain.

Panic flew through John as he shoved open the piece of fabric. Sherlock was on the floor of the tub, knees to his chest and arms around his legs, slightly rocking back and forth. His head was tucked in by his knees, soaked mop of curls falling over his face. The top of his tattoo just peeked over the curve of his shoulder blades.

“Jesus,” John breathed, and turned the water off before lightly touching Sherlock’s shoulder. The man flinched at the contact, and John pulled back before crouching by Sherlock’s ear, leaning towards him from the outside of the tub.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, trying to be as calm as he could. “Sherlock, we need to get you out of the shower, okay?” Movement from the curls that John took as agreement spurred him on in trying to fix...whatever this was.

“Good,” he continued. “I’m going to get a towel, and I’m going to put it over your shoulders,” John said, hoping to god that explicitly stating what was happening would help, and grabbed a blue terrycloth towel from the back of the door and settling it on Sherlock’s shaking shoulders.

“Now I need you to stand up for me Sherlock. I’ll help you if you fall.” Slowly, Sherlock’s fingers unfolded from their grip on his legs to hold onto the towel before shakily getting to his feet. John reached out a hand and helped Sherlock over the rim of the tub to stand him on the bathmat.

“You’re doing fine,” John said. “Now we need to dry you; I’ll grab another towel and rub you down, but feel free to do any spots you’d feel uncomfortable me touching.”

John started with Sherlock’s feet and worked his way up, rubbing Sherlock dry. His shoulders were slumped, causing his inked wings to appear folded in on themselves, sheltering Sherlock, and John noted the faint tremors that ran through his friend’s frame and the faraway, dulled look in his eyes. John didn’t know what had caused it, but all the signs of a panic attack were there, which was worrisome, considering Sherlock was one of the most emotionally-controlled people John knew. When he reached Sherlock’s head he gently bent it to run the towel over his hair, murmuring words of praise and encouragement.

Once Sherlock was dry, John carded his fingers through his curls once before swiping a thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “I’m going to get you some clothes.” John stated calmly. “Be back in a mo.”

He helped Sherlock into an overwashed, soft grey t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms, then took his hand and led a quiet Sherlock into the living room. Ignoring the stab of worry at the detective’s silence and instead focusing on helping his friend, John walked Sherlock to the couch and laid out before he pulled Sherlock down over him.

Sherlock crumpled like a marionette with cut strings, sinking into John, and burying his nose and curling his fingers into the soft jumper that smelled of laundry soap and tea.

Neither of them spoke, letting the sounds of London outside their window and their breathing fill the room. John softly ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair, occasionally placing his fingers on Sherlock’s neck to check his pulse, pleased to note that it had reached a normal rate. As Sherlock’s breathing slowed and deepened, John began to think that the detective had fallen asleep, until Sherlock spoke in a low, slightly hoarse murmur.

“I thought I was suffocating.”

John instinctively tightened his hold, but allowed Sherlock to continue.

“When they first grabbed me,” he began, voice quiet but clear, “I thought nothing bad would come of it-none of them seemed predisposed to torture, given my deductions about their backgrounds, and the group bond was weak enough that I believed I could turn them against each other.” Sherlock paused and let out a shaky breath.

“But then _he_ came. I assume he was the leader, but when he arrived at the warehouse the entire dynamic changed; they strung me up, demanded to know how I’d found out about their drug operation. Getting beat up I can take, but when punches and whipping didn’t work, they left me there for the afternoon, alone except the guard. The room,” Sherlock’s grip on John’s jumper tightened. “The room got so hot, from the sun and lack of ventilation and water. With my arms above my head I had difficulties breathing and the less oxygen that entered my lungs, the more I could feel the blood flow slowing, my body trying to preserve itself by sweating and trying to conserve energy at the same time. I knew, logically, that you were coming, but my mind and body betrayed me, insisted that I would die in a storage facility from lack of oxygen. And I was terrified.”

In the wake of Sherlock’s confession, a heavy silence filled the flat. John was stunned. He’d known that the kidnapping had had more of an effect on Sherlock than he’d let on, but this was something that made John’s blood boil.

“I suppose,” he said at last, “that it’s a good thing Mycroft already took care of those men.”

Sherlock chuckled weakly. “Perhaps. There are only so many dead people Lestrade can turn a blind eye to.”

John smiled briefly then tugged gently on Sherlock’s hair to make him look up. “I’d shoot any number of bad cabbies or drug dealers for you, if it meant you’d be safe,” he said solemnly.

Sherlock looked back at him, just as serious. “I know. The sentiment is mutual.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The sentiment is mutual," is actually something I've said to people, and it stuck in my head as a very Sherlockian line. With the way things are going, the rest of this may be up by the weekend (which would be really exciting, but no promises)! The amount of feedback I've gotten is absolutely amazing, and all your comments and kudos are very much appreciated :) I was kind of worried about Sherlock's characterization in this chapter...did I do okay?


	5. Drenched

Outside, rain was pouring, the droplets of water angrily pounding on the windows of 221B. John, glad that he hadn't had work that day and had instead been able to stay out of the downpour, was in the kitchen debating over whether he wanted leftover Indian or Chinese for dinner that night when the door of the flat banged open. John smiled. It had been a week since John had found Sherlock on the floor of their shower, and while they hadn’t talked about it, Sherlock had given John grateful looks and seemed to be getting back to his normal status of ‘mad, impossible flatmate’, except with less body parts in the fridge, something John assumed was Sherlock’s way of saying thanks. John, on the other hand, had been trying-and failing- to ignore his increasing attraction to his friend.

“Are you eating tonight?” John called out, being brought back to the present by Sherlock muttering from the living room. John waited a moment, and, with no answer given, sighed and turned to walk into the adjacent room, only to jump  at the sight of a  soaking wet consulting detective entering the kitchen.

Sherlock looked like he’d been thrown into the Thames, he was so wet from the rain. He’d already disposed of his suit jacket but his white dress shirt was drenched through, revealing his chest and-oh god- his tattoo through the wet material. John licked his bottom lip, then flushed when Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow.  

Their eyes locked, and John’s mind was on a loop between _oh my god_ and _finally_. He watched as a bead of water ran down Sherlock’s ivory throat and with a final bounce between the two thoughts, decided he had to at least try, regardless of what happened after.

With one step, John brought himself close enough to see another water droplet begin its way down Sherlock’s neck. before he could think about it, John flicked out his tongue and licked it up, before running his lips down to Sherlock’s collarbone, where water had gathered in the dip between skin and bone.

Sherlock’s breath hitched, and John looked back up to find that Sherlock’s pupils had dilated, desire wafting off his skin. Slowly John reached up and placed his lips on Sherlock’s, closing his eyes and just exchanging breath until Sherlock whimpered, and then it was a battle of tongues and warm mouths and _oh god did he just bite me?_ John’s fingers curled themselves into Sherlock’s wet shirt and pulled him closer, letting out a groan as their hips aligned, Sherlock’s length pressing against John’s stomach through wet trousers.

“You were,” Sherlock panted as John made his way back down that gorgeous neck, licking and sucking. “You were saying something about food?”

John nudged the shirt out of the way with his nose and bit down on Sherlock’s shoulder, worrying the skin with his teeth. Sherlock’s fingers wound themselves in John’s hair, and John returned to Sherlock’s mouth.

“Fuck the sodding food,” he growled in between sloppy kisses. Sherlock pulled back and nuzzled at John’s ear, his breath ragged as his tongue traced the rim.

“I’d rather it was me you’d fuck,” he whispered, and John moaned as a rush of desire went through him.

“Right. Bedroom, now,” he demanded around another searing kiss, and Sherlock chuckled devilishly as they stumbled down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recognize that this may have ended a bit...early, compared to how far some of you may have wanted it to go, but I'm not going to lie- as a writer I am still fairly new to fan fiction, and not really confident in my ability to write sex scenes yet. Sorry! Other than that, do y'all think I did alright with the moment where John and Sherlock's relationship changed? (I hope so!) Final chapter should be up tomorrow, or Saturday at the latest :)


	6. In Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone kindly reminded me in the comments on chapter 5 that I hadn't explained why Sherlock was drenched. I have now changed it so that there is an explanation-nothing too major, just a couple sentences towards the beginning of the chapter, but I thought I'd let you guys know in case you wanted to go back and reread it :)

John woke gradually, smiling as slightly sore muscles  reminded him of  the night before. His eyes opened to find Sherlock sprawled across his chest, arms wrapped around his chest and their legs entwined under the covers.

For a few minutes he just laid there, enjoying the feeling of another person-of Sherlock- pressed up against him. He ran his fingers over the wings tattooed on Sherlock’s back, taking the time to stare like he’d wanted to since he’d first seen them in Buckingham Palace almost two months ago, when John had never thought he’d be here, with Sherlock, in bed.

“You’re thinking,” came a complaintive mumble from his chest where Sherlock was stirring. “We had mind blowing sex and now you’re thinking, loudly. In the morning. Why?”

John chuckled. “Just thinking about these,” he answered, running his thumb over a feather. “Wondering about the story behind them. They’re what made me first think of..this, with you. “

Sherlock raised his head and  stared, surprise evident on his face. “Really?”

John nodded. “Yeah. Any serious thought, anyway. After Buckingham Palace, I couldn’t get them out of my head. Why you’d gotten them, how you’d look in bed with them.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment more, then dropped his head back on John’s chest and shrugged. “It was in uni,” he said, voice muffled. “I was bored- for all my hopes, uni was inferally boring-and wandering through London when I saw this tattoo parlor tucked away in some outlet. I thought deducing the customers would be something at least somewhat intriguing to do, so I went in.”

John snorted. “Oh my god.”

Sherlock nipped at the skin over one of John’s ribs. “Be quiet. Anyway, I went in, and the owner- came from a family of bikers, inherited the place from his father- didn’t care what I did in his establishment, as long as I didn’t cause any trouble and got a tattoo. He gave me a book of designs and as I detailed the sex life of a thirty-seven year old musician wannabe I chose the wings, and the owner started that day. I came back every couple weeks for the next two and a half months for more detail, and deduced the other people in the place each time. It was one of the highlights of the year, and a nice break from the monotony of university.”

When he was finished, John laid there in silence for a moment, then laughed. Sherlock looked up at him sharply and John tried to reign in his giggles of pure delight, rubbing Sherlock’s shoulder blade in an attempt to wipe away the indignation and confusion on his face.

“C’mere,” John said smiling, and Sherlock pushed himself up far enough to let John press a soft kiss to his lips. “You are fantastic, you know,” John said softly once Sherlock had settled again, stroking the back of his neck in adoration. “Only my crazy consulting detective would get a tattoo in order to deduce people in a tattoo parlor.”

Sherlock chuckled. “It was quite the gold mine of information. It’s fascinating, what you can learn from the things people have inked onto their skin.”

“I don’t doubt it,” John said. “You can tell me all about it. Over breakfast.”

Sherlock made a dissatisfied noise and buried his nose in John’s chest, causing John to chuckle again and poke Sherlock in the ribs.

“C’mon. You’re skinny as it is, food won’t hurt you.” John cajoled. “We’ll have toast and tea, maybe some eggs. Then we can do whatever you want.”

Sherlock sighed, but pushed himself up to throw on some pants and his blue dressing gown, pausing before he walked out of the room to give John a lazy kiss, their tongues meeting entirely different from the night before, lazy and lovingly. “Very well,” he said lowly, their lips barely separated, Sherlock’s fingers in John’s hair, John’s on Sherlock’s waist. “But only because I desire to have sex afterwards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I've really enjoyed writing this, and all of the comments I've received while posting it. (They seriously gave me a confidence boost about this piece, something I can't thank you guys enough for!) Hopefully you've enjoyed reading it, and please, let me know what you liked most/what I could improve on for next time. As far as anything else I'm working on, I started writing another fic where Sherlock is an artist a couple weeks ago, and hopefully I'll finish that soon so I can post it :)  
> Until next time,  
> biswholocked


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